


Come for the Lemonade, Stay for the Armageddon

by winethroughwater



Series: One-Shots from the Crowe House B & B [1]
Category: Carnivale
Genre: F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:50:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winethroughwater/pseuds/winethroughwater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots and drabbles written when the show was airing, always with the support of the wonder ladies from the Crowe House.  All Justin/Iris, all the time. I'm moving these over from ff.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She remembers each one of their names.

She remembers each one of their names, still whispers every syllable every night—asks God to remember them because she can't forget.

 

Oh,  _he_  had wept over their desperate pasts, their miserable plights and desecrated bodies—had wept and gnashed his teeth against her until she could feel them too.

 

But  _she_  had tucked second hand blankets around tired  _but-I-don't-want-to-go-to-sleep_  bodies, told them stories until they'd hush—stories about Ruslan and Ludmila, Snegurochka—taught them to sing "Jesus Loves Me."

 

All children-save one-go to heaven.

 

And his name never needs remembering.


	2. Her Name and Other Five-Letter Words Starting with I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris recalls the times she has heard her brother say her name. (The first Carnivale fic I ever wrote. It was an experiment in fragmented style.)

The first time it happened. When they were young and he was scared and so was she. When they had never been separated. Not since home, not since the river. The night before he left for seminary. The irony of this has never been lost on her. The night before his life became devoted to God or some higher power yet unknown. She remembers that when he came, he whispered  _Irina_ in her ear.

 

She listens to the sounds upstairs. Knowing what he is doing and knowing that it is because of her. The monotonous, painful licking of leather against flesh. A distinctive sound, one that thunders in her ears. Even as the hymns swell. A sound that makes her both ashamed and pleased. Ashamed that this is happening again. Ashamed that  _he_  is ashamed of her, of them. That he would rather punish himself than be with her again. That he would rather pour out his own blood, than to pour himself into her. But pleased that he did think of her. That it hurt him how much he thought of her. She feels each blow too. Feels them across her back, feels them licking across her breasts, over her thighs. Still feels him between them. She wonders if her name falls from his lips. Indistinguishable from the other cries of pain.

 

And when he kissed her again. Kissed her like he meant to break her. She wanted to be broken. To break apart what called itself Iris and Justin, but answered to Irina and Alexsei. And to be put back together again, resurrected as some strange beast rising from the sea, from the river. Some amalgam of the two. To be a sacrifice just like the lambs.

 

He only calls her by her real name at moments like these. When he stood above her, his sister gasping on the sofa like some common whore. He said her name then. Each slip of the knife against the plate, calls her name again. Reminding her of each time his shirt scratched her stomach and each time she felt the buttons from the cushions bite into her back under his weight. He wrote her name across her skin, her wrists, her throat. She reads it over and over in the bruises.

 

And he will call her Irina. Will whisper it against her ear. When she delivers up her own Isaac. Their own sacrificial lamb. Screaming and breathing into the dust and the blood. Out of the belly of the exquisite whore writhing on the sofa, delivered into the hands of the Father. Isaac means laughter. The irony of this will not be lost on her.

 

And she prays that when he walks down the aisle of the church again. When he searches not his own soul, but other's. That he won't hear that she is really praying to hear her name once again.


	3. Christmas with the Crowes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Carny gang gather to celebrate the holidays. As silly as it sounds. Complete and utter crack. Contains liberal amounts of Seinfeld references and to the plot of A Christmas Story.

Justin Crowe towered over his sister as she knelt at the oven, carefully taking out a pan of gingerbread men. She put the pan on the cutting board to cool and pushed at him with the other oven-mitted hand, "Stop hovering. Go. Mingle."

 

"I don't mingle," he declared curtly. "And would you mind explaining to me what all these people, if you could call them that, are doing here?"

 

"It's Christmas Eve."

 

"That's your answer?" he asked incredulously. " _It's Christmas Eve_. That's why you invited my nemesis—the boy I am destined to battle in the final war between good and evil—and his circus freak cronies?"

 

"Uhm-hum, it's Christmas Eve," she answered. "And I love Christmas."

 

He stood petulantly, glowering. "I'd be careful of that face  _and_  those thoughts. You don't want some kind of Dickensian visitors do you? Lord knows, you don't want all those ghosts to come out of your past," she warned.

 

She took his hand and shoved the sticky bag of icing into it, guiding him over to the waiting cookie men. "Here, help me decorate these so we can get them out to our guests."

 

Iris popped her head into the living room to check on the early arrivals. Norman sat on the couch listening as that delightful little Samson man told another animated story. Off in the corner, Varlyn Stroud was crowding some poor woman with lots of tattoos. Iris grimaced distastefully. She'd have to keep an eye on Stroud and make sure he didn't do anything untoward or vulgar as he was want to do. Then there was Ben Hawkins, the dirty young savior who so occupied her brother's mind of late. Looking at him now, staring confusedly at his own hand, it was hard to believe he was supposed to take on her formidable brother. Ben flopped down on the sofa and Iris fought back the urge to go and put a newspaper down under him; she was sure he would leave a big dirty spot in his wake.

 

Satisfied that things seemed to be in hand so far, Iris went back into the kitchen, humming snatches of "We Three Kings." She smiled as she watched Justin working on decorating the cookies. She put her arm around his waist and cuddled up to him, looking down at his work.

 

"Justin! What have you done to them!"

 

There on the cookie sheet sat grotesque little gingerbread men, their sugary chests tattooed with merry green and red branches. And then there was the one with the head broken off that had the name "Ben" prominently scrawled across its torso.

 

* * *

"Sooo, here we are," Ben said.

 

"Yes. Here we are," Sofie answered. Some conversationalist, this kid.

 

"Yep." 'Bout as talkative as Momma was. She looked around the room for someone else to talk to.

 

"Underneath the mistletoe," Ben said meaningfully, glancing up at the bundle hanging above their heads in the doorway.

 

The nerve. "I'm sorry do I  _know_  you?" Sofie asked bluntly.

 

Ben looked confused and somewhat hurt. "Well, yeah, we kinda—you know," he whispered suggestively, elbowing her in the ribs.

 

Sofie's eyes widened—surely not. "You must be thinking of someone else," she ventured. " I'm a baptized, born-again Christian now that I work for the Crowe's. And I assure you, nothing like that goes on in this house."

 

"Amen."

 

Sofie and Ben's heads shot around to see Miss Crowe nearby.

 

As Miss Crowe walked away, Sofie could have sworn she heard her mutter, "Unfortunately."

 

"But Sofffieee," Ben wined as soon as Iris was out of earshot. "Don't you remember the truck and the rain and the . . . other stuff."

 

A shadow passed over Ben and he found himself staring up into the face of Brother Justin, his reluctant host. "Are you bothering my daugh—domestic help?" Justin's mouth curved up at the corners, proud of his smooth save.

 

"I ain't botherin' her none," Ben stammered.

 

"Good," Justin replied in warning.

 

"Do I know you from somewhere?" Ben asked. Justin cocked his head for a moment, formulating an appropriately biting retort, but let it go, figuring it would be lost on the boy anyways.

 

* * *

 

 

"I'll just get that, shall I?" Justin muttered to no one in particular as the incessant knocking at the front door continued. Despite his usual iron resolve, Justin's mouth dropped open cod-fish-like at the sight that greeted him on the other side.

 

There stood Rita Sue, in all her buxom glory, clad despite the chilly weather in what could only be described as a bit of tinsel and some strategically placed bells.

 

"Merry Christmas, everybody!" Rita Sue sang out, bouncing into the middle of things, setting off a chorus of jingle bells.

 

"Rita Sue. Stumpy. Bought time you all got here," Samson called.

 

"We brought presents," Stumpy declared, following on his wife's heels, shoving at the beat up Santa hat that drooped down into his eyes and hoisting a large gunnysack over his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

"And then I told that ol' plow jockey, that I could still buck a bull off a bicycle but he wasn't about to butter my biscuit, and I didn't give a good tinker's dam."

 

Justin paused beside Stroud and the Snake Woman, Ruth—Ruthie—Naomi—whatever her name was, amazed at how the words kept flowing out of mouth but none of them made any sense.

 

"I don't know what she's sayin' either," Stroud laughed, chewing on a toothpick, "but I'm not interested in her for her conversation, now am I?"

 

"How charming, Brother Stroud." Justin wondered idly how far down that snake tattoo of hers went. He patted his chest, thinking of his own foray into the land of body modification. He was still pleased with the mystical tree that adorned his torso. And he had been more than pleased with his sister's reaction to it. He caught Iris's eye across the room and looked pointedly over at the wall. At the flush that crept up her neck, he smiled smugly.

 

"Is she speakin' in tongues?"

 

Justin glanced down at the little blonde standing at his elbow. She was just a little slip of a girl, and so was the dress she was wearing, he noticed, finally feeling a nigh bit jolly.

 

"Hello. And what's your name?" Justin asked, smiling down at her sweetly.

 

Libby giggled and batted her doe eyes at him, "Libby."

 

"Let's get you some punch, Libby," Justin offered, putting his hand on the small of her back to usher her off to the punch bowl.

 

"Have you ever considered dying your hair red?"

 

Libby giggled again.

 

* * *

 

 

"How many more of these people did you invite, Iris?" Justin asked distastefully. The most recent additions to their "happy" gathering were an elegantly dressed blind man being led about by a woman who would have been considered attractive had it not been for the rather prominent beard adorning her chin. Judging from the way she sat perched on the man's lap, they must be a couple.

 

"I think everyone is almost here," Iris said giving the room a quick once over.

 

"Iris, honey, you've got to tell me what's in this here punch," the bearded woman yelled across the room in her Southern drawl, raising her cup in toast to her hosts.

 

"Oh, it's just lemonade with red food coloring actually," Iris answered.

 

"And that bottle of rum I tipped in there," Stumpy added merrily.

 

"I thought it tasted better than usual," Norman said, downing yet another glass with shaking hands.

 

Justin and Iris's eyes met and they both mouthed "Norman?" incredulously.

 

"Time for presents!" Rita Sue announced, stepping up onto the coffee table. Stumpy dug through the sack and brought out a small square gift, as everyone gathered around.

 

"This one is for . . . Ben . . . from Ruthie," Rita Sue announced.

 

Ben shuffled up to the table, looking uncomfortable to be in the spotlight. Rita Sue handed the gift to him and kissed him on the cheek for good measure. "Open it up now, quick."

 

Ben tore the paper off and was clearly touched by the gift. "Ahhh, shucks. Thanks, Ruthie. I've never had any of this before," he sniffled holding up a brand new bar of Ivory soap.

 

One word rang through everyone's mind—"obviously."

 

"This one," Rita Sue declared, "is to Miss Crowe from Samson."

 

"You shouldn't have," Iris said. "Thank you." She untied the bow and took the lid off the box peering in.

 

"We heard yours got broken," Samson explained.

 

"Yes," Iris said, unconsciously pulling the hem of her dress down over her knees. "It's . . . lovely." She grimaced despite her best efforts and held up a large square mirror with "Dogs Playing Poker" etched on it.

 

"Yep, that's a nice one," Stumpy called. "That'd cost ya at least ten, fifteen dollars to win on the midway."

 

Ben looked over her shoulder, studying it. "Hey, the bulldog's cheatin'. How come I never noticed that before?"

 

The gift giving proceeded and almost everyone had gotten something, except for Libby who sat pouting at her mother's feet.

 

"Ain't cha got something in the bag for me?"

 

"Let me see," Stumpy said, digging way down into the sack, and finally pulling out an oddly shaped present. "Nope, this one is another one for me." Libby's face fell. "Nah, it's for you."

 

Libby tore through the wrapping, then glared at her parents. "A bottle of peroxide? What kinda Christmas present is that?"

 

"Lib, honey, those roots have got to go," Rita Sue admonished running her hand over her daughter's hair. "I mean, it ain't like they aren't gonna see you're no natural blonde, but'cha don't have to go advertising it with those two inch roots."

 

"Ma-ah, you're embarrassing me," Libby whined.

 

"What were you expecting anyways, little girl? A pony?" Stumpy teased.

 

"Who has a pony anyways?" Samson asked, a bit tipsy. "I always did hate a person with a pony."

 

"I had a pony in Russia!"

 

Everyone looked up to see Jonesy pulling Management through the door in a shiny new Radio Flyer wagon.

 

"I rode it every day," he continued. "It was a beautiful pony."

 

"Well, I'll be damned, Lucius Belyakov at a party!" Samson cheered. "Will wonders never cease."

 

"Dad!" Justin and Iris asked, eerily in unison, stepping closer to the strange visitor.

 

"Clayton, you came back to me!" Libby squealed, tears starting to stream down her checks as she ran and threw her arms around his neck, bringing his face down to hers to cover it in sloppy kisses.

 

Jonesy pulled back for air. "Why do you say that every time I'm gone outa the room for more than five minutes?"

 

Justin stepped closer to his sister and whispered in her ear: "Is it just me or do you remember Dad being taller?"

 

Iris shook her head trying to make some sense of recent events.

 

"Say, are you the Russian?" Ben asked, approaching the man in the wagon. "Belyakov," he said to himself. "That sounds Russian. Or maybe Spanish."

 

The man in question looked at Ben then at Justin. "Alexsei, son,  _that's_ ," he said nodding towards Ben, " almost too easy . . ."

 

"Son!" Ben yelled. "You're Spanish too!" he asked Justin.

 

"Really, one hand tied behind your back . . ." Belyakov continued. He turned his attention then to his long lost daughter. "And Irina, I'd ask you to sit on my knee like you did when you were a little girl, but," he swept the small blanket from his lap, "I don't have knees anymore."

 

This time Iris pulled Justin's head down to whisper, "Is it just me or do you remember dad having  _legs_  and  _two_  arms?"

 

* * *

 

 

"Hey, there's more presents under the table," Libby announced. "Maybe I'll get somethin' better." She plundered through the small stack of gifts. "Not for me. This one's for the Professor. Professor!"

 

"Now where'd Lodz and Lila get off to?" Samson asked. Everyone looked around them but the pair was conspicuously absent. The lull in conversation allowed the entry of other sounds. Namely the rhythmic beating of leather against something soft. Iris blanched and Justin gulped.

 

"Oh, daddy!"

 

"My little clarinet!"

 

Everyone stood frozen, casting their eyes towards the ceiling, following the sounds.

 

"Did he just say  _clarinet_?" Belyakov asked Samson. "I know it's been awhile since I did anything like that, but  _clarinet_?"

 

"How'd they find that?" Justin asked through gritted teeth.

 

"I've told you not to leave it lying around," Iris scolded.

 

"Humph," Libby sighed. "Feels like socks anyhow." She threw the present down behind her.

 

"Why don't we turn up the radio?" Iris suggested, rubbing at her throat, drawing attention to the embarrassed red flush covering it. She stepped over Libby and clicked the dial. A hiss sounded then the end of a cheesy jingle before a familiar voice filled the room.

 

"On the road again, just can't wait to get back on the road again," the voice slurred. "Hey that's kinda catchy—somebody write that down. Yes it's me, Tommy Dolan, back again. Where was I? Hiccup. Oh, yes . . . so let me just say that for a good time call area code 555, extension 666 and ask for Iris. But if her brother answers, hang up."

 

Without a word, Iris turned the dial off and smiled at the wide-eyed faces staring back at her. "Who wants fruitcake?" she asked before retreating to the kitchen.

 

Stumpy chuckled, watching their prim hostess practically run for cover. Nice legs. He turned to the men beside him: "Five dollars says the preacher winds up with his sister under that there mistletoe."

 

Belyakov looked shocked. "My children? Absolutely not. Just what are you insinuating?"

 

"Trust me," Norman cut in. "I've got five in favor too."

 

"Here we are. Fruitcake," Iris offered, now collected, laying down a monstrous platter of everyone's favorite Christmas cake. "Eat up." Everyone dug in. Except for Justin and Iris herself.

 

"I don't like fruitcake," Justin pouted.

 

"I know you don't," Iris soothed, "but you have all those gingerbread men in the kitchen to eat, now don't you?"

 

Iris sat down another dish. "Now who's in the mood for pigs in the blanket?"

 

Snorting, Libby burst out, "Yeah, who's in the mood for  _pork_!" Several people—namely Stumpy and Sofie—broke into fits of laughter. Rita Sue swatted at her daughter to shush her.

 

"I don't get it," Iris said, confused, looking to her brother for an explanation. Stroud was suddenly at their side.

 

"Want me to explain it to her?" he offered lasciviously.

 

"Shut up, Varlyn," Justin bit. "I'll explain it to you later, dear."

 

* * *

 

"Do me the honors, Miss Crowe?"

 

"Excuse me?" Iris asked, confused, looking down at the little man standing before her.

 

Samson tapped his cheek with a finger and nodded up to the mistletoe.

 

Iris, blushing, bent down to his height and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

 

Justin snickered behind her and she turned on him before he had time to react, standing on her tiptoes and giving him a quick, but loud, smack that just missed his cheek and landed on the corner of his mouth. They stood staring intently at each other until the sound of Samson's gleefully laughter broke the spell.

 

"Pay up, Lucius!" Samson yelled, trotting back across the room, pleased that he could still con the marks with the best of them. Granted it hadn't taken a lot of conning this time to get the desired results.

 

* * *

 

Continuing her search for a better present, Libby fished out two more from under the couch. "Damn! Not for me either." She shoved a present into Iris's hand and crossed the room to deposit another, much larger one, into Justin's arms.

 

Justin turned the strangely shaped gift over and read that it was from Norman. He really had no idea what this could be. He caught site of Iris out of the corner of his eye; she was tearing the paper from a smartly wrapped red box, the one he had wrapped three times before he had gotten it right. His mouth suddenly went dry. "Iris! Don't open that one now."

 

"Why not?" she said laughing.

 

"Open it later. Later," he warned.

 

Too late. She opened the box—her mouth parted in an "O"—then slammed the lid down on it again. Her cheeks burned until she was sure they matched her hair.

 

"What is it?" Ben asked.

 

"Ummm," Iris searched. "A new bible cover," she lied.

 

"When did they start making those out of black lace?" Sofie asked to her left.

 

"Maybe you got mine," Libby complained to her right.

 

"Yes, well, someone else's turn. What did you get, Justin?" she asked pointedly.

 

Unable to look anyone in the room in the eye, Justin concentrated on opening the gift. It was exactly the present he had dreamed of—35 years ago. "A Red Rider B-B gun."

 

Belyakov looked concerned. "His mother and I never let him have one of those. You'll put your eye out with those things."

 

"Rose and I felt the same way when he was growing up," Norman answered and shrugged, "but now I figured what the hell, maybe we'll get lucky and he'll hit an artery."

 

"Wow!" Ben exclaimed, clearly in awe of the little gun. "Let's go outside and shoot it."

 

Justin furrowed his forehead as if in pain at the very thought.

 

"Go ahead, Justin. Go outside with the boy and try it out," Iris commanded.

 

"Sure," Justin said tartly. "Come on then, boy." He glared at Iris again before slamming the door in a huff.

 

"Anyone for more fruitcake?" Iris began.

 

"How about some Christmas limericks, folks. There once was a woman named Iris. She—"

 

"Sofie! Turn off that radio!" Iris snapped.

 

"Ahhh! My eye!"

 

Iris ran to the door just in time to open it for a very irritated Justin, holding his hand up over his left eye.

 

Muffled chuckles sounded around the room.

 

"See, I told you so," Belyakov said.

 

"It wasn't the be-be," Justin cried. "It was . . . an icicle . . . no, no it was fire and brimstone, raining from heaven!" he declared vehemently.

 

"Sure it was, just come in the kitchen with me and I'll clean that cut for you," Iris offered.

 

"Ah, he'll be all right," Samson said.

 

Despite his misgivings, Belyakov agreed, "You'd be surprised what kinds of body parts and appendages you can learn to do without."

 

* * *

 

The clanging of a pot. The clattering of silverware. And something that sounded like a chair thudding against the wall.

 

"Should we just leave?" Lila asked, having finally rejoined the group with Lodz in tow. "That seems to me the only proper thing to do."

 

"They have been in there for over 20 minutes," Rita Sue added, craning her neck to look at the kitchen door again.

 

"Hey, Ben. Why don't you go in there and see what they're doing?" teased Stumpy.

 

Ruthie caught Ben's arm as he got up to do just that, pulling him back down to sit beside her. "Stumpy don't tease the boy like that. Walkin' in on somethin' like that could put him right off relations for good."

 

"You really think that's what they're doin'?" Libby asked, screwing up her face.

 

All eyes returned to the kitchen door at the sudden cessation of noise.

 

"Oh, I get it. Porked!"

 

"Let's just leave them a nice note," Samson exclaimed jumping up from his perch on Justin's favorite chair. "Everybody out."

 

* * *

 

Justin, thoroughly exhausted, yet infinitely relieved to see all of their guests gone, sat in his chair, his head buried in his hand.

 

He felt Iris's knees bump against his and looked up.

 

"Thanks for helping me clean up the kitchen earlier."

 

"I couldn't stand to be in the room with those people for another minute." He sighed.

 

"What's wrong?" she asked.

 

"Don't you have a Christmas present for me?"

 

At his expectant look, Iris put her hands beside his on the arms of the chair and leaned down closer to him. "You mean besides wearing the present you gave me?"

 

"Ahhh." Laughing, he pulled her down into his lap.

 

"Yes," she finally answered. "The fruitcake."

 

"You know I don't eat that."

 

"I know. And neither do I," Iris explained. "But everyone else does. Between them, they ate the whole cake."

 

"Yes, I'm sure it was lovely, but what does that have to do with anything?"

 

"Let's just say," she gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead, "that I added a little something special to my recipe this year."

 

"You . . ."

 

"Poisoned the lot of them?" Iris finished. "Yes. Merry Christmas." Another kiss, this time at his right temple.

 

"But Stroud was on our side."

 

"He was a groper." She kissed him again—playfully on the tip of his nose.

 

"And Norman?" Justin asked.

 

Iris pulled away to look at him. "Justin, our Christmas card from him this year read, 'To the Antichrist and his harlot of a sister.' I hardly think he was on our team." She leaned back in to put her lips softly against his cheek.

 

"But what about sweet little Sofie?"

 

"I stopped that train before it left the station," she said meaningfully.

 

He nodded, admitting the truth of her statement. But still he had hoped . . .

 

"Besides, judging from the way she was looking at that Libby girl tonight, I think Sofie might have been a lesbian, and therefore not interested in  _you_." Justin's eyebrow quirked at what that suggested. "And before you ask. No," she admonished, "there was never any chance of  _that_  happening."

 

The clock chimed out midnight.

 

"It is now officially Christmas day," Iris said. "So Merry Christmas." This time the kiss was anything but chaste. When she tugged on his lower lip with her teeth, his hand tangled in her hair, and he kissed her back soundly, the way he had been dying to do all night, since that that little peck under the mistletoe.

 

She squealed when he stood up, lifting her in his arms, and starting for the stairs.

 

"Time for my present," he teased.

 

"And just what present would that be?"

 

"The one I'm about to unwrap."

 


	4. What to Give Your Sister on Her Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris has a birthday.

Justin Crowe felt as if a physical load had been lifted from his shoulders as he quietly slipped through the screen door and into the house he shared with his sister. After a day spent administering to the spiritual and emotional needs of his parishioners during his weekly visitations, Justin was relieved to finally return to the comforts of home. He glanced into the living room and saw no sign of Iris. Listening for a moment, he smiled to himself, and then followed the soft sounds of humming through the house until he came to the kitchen. Iris stood at the counter, her back towards him, making bread. He paused in the doorway to take in the scene, and the woman, before him.

 

He watched, as her whole body seemed caught up in the rhythm of kneading the floury pile of dough before her. Her red hair escaping from its pins to fall in messy tendrils along her neck and into her face. The hint of muscle that appeared beneath the soft skin in her forearms with each push. How she rose up just slightly on her bare toes. He watched, almost hypnotized by the rocking of her hips, in tune to the song she was humming. He finally looked away guiltily, reaching into his coat pocket and trying to remind himself what he had come into the kitchen to do.

 

Iris could feel Justin watching her from the doorway. Finally she said without looking up or altering her rhythm, "Dinner isn't ready yet. As you can see." He didn't answer. "I know you're standing back there. I heard you come in." She blew out of the corner of her mouth to try to move her hair off her forehead. Eventually she gave up and wiped at it using the back of her arm.

 

"Close your eyes."

 

She jumped, startled that Justin was standing right behind her. "Close your eyes," he repeated again slowly. She swallowed hard at the feel of his breath warm across her ear. He took a step back from her as she took her hands out of the dough and wiped them on her apron. She closed her eyes, humoring him. "What is this all about?"

 

"All in good time," he teased. "Are they closed?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Keep them closed," he warned.

 

She sighed, exasperated.

 

He took her by the shoulders and turned her towards him.

 

She stood there looking slightly irritated, yet with eyes dutifully closed. And a big streak of flour across her cheek.

 

He laughed. "Did you get any of that flour in the dough? Or did you decide to wear most of it?"

 

" _Justin_ ," she warned as she wiped blindly at her face. "I'm only going to play along with this for so long, you know."

 

"Sorry, just hold still."

 

She felt him move closer to her until they were nearly touching. He put something around her neck. The weight of it dropped between her breasts. He lifted her damp hair off the back of her neck to let the cold beads of the chain settle against her skin. He stepped back.

 

"Now."

 

She opened her eyes and looked down at her chest to see the dark ebony cameo, carved with the face of a woman. She gasped as she immediately recognized the gentle eyes and soft smile, despite the fact that it had been nearly twenty years since she had last seen them. Iris was speechless for a moment as she took the pendant in her hand and stared down intently at it.

 

Justin stood grinning in front of her eagerly waiting for her reaction. He was sure she would be pleased with this gift. And he recognized the play of emotions across her face. He had felt the same ones as he had gazed into the jeweler's case in disbelief.

 

She smiled up at him, shaking her head. "How did you have this made? It looks just like hers . . ."

 

"I didn't," he explained. "I didn't have it made."

 

"But it can't be."

 

"Turn it over," he said eagerly.

 

Iris turned the necklace over in her palm. There carved into the stone in Cyllric characters were the letters "P.B. – L.B." Iris slowly traced a finger across the markings before looking up at Justin, her eyes bright with the threat of tears. "Our mother's."

 

"Yes, it has to be."

 

"How did you ever find this?" Iris asked, staring down at it again.

 

"Providence, I think. I found it without looking really. In a little shop in Salinas when I was visiting Norman last month. I couldn't believe it when I saw it. I hadn't thought about that necklace in years. But there it was in the jeweler's case. Her face staring up at me."

 

"But she sold this in New York."

 

"I know. I remember," Justin said. "The owner said someone in town with a carnival had brought it in a few months before. I wanted to tell you about it then. But I decided to wait and surprise you with it today."

 

"Oh, Justin," she beamed up at him. "I can't believe this."

 

"Happy birthday, 'Ira," he said softly.

 

He was very pleased indeed with her reaction to the gift. He liked seeing her happy and smiling. Iris had worked so hard for years to help him go to seminary training and now she was right here at his side day in and day out struggling to make a go of First Methodist.

 

Yet something was wrong with the picture. The necklace looked out of place with her white housedress. But it didn't look out of place on her. It suited her. And it made him realize just how much Iris resembled their mother. Not in her coloring. That was so much lighter, maybe she got that from their father, but there was something about her mouth and the curve of her cheek, which looked distinctly like the woman on the cameo. Justin decided that his sister deserved more nice things. A new dress to go with the necklace maybe. Before he could mention this she stepped towards him.

 

"Thank you, Alexsei. It's wonderful." She stood on tiptoe; then, still not quite tall enough to reach him, she put her arms up around his neck and pulled his face down towards hers. She kissed him enthusiastically on the cheek once, twice, and then something went wrong.

 

* * *

 

 

_Later, alone in her room, she will stare at her reflection in the mirror, the cameo dark against her slip, as her fingers retrace all the places where his lips have been. She will say to herself that their first kiss was only an accident, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth, as if of their own will. She has a harder time explaining away all the rest._

 

_She will swear to herself that it will never happen again. But she will pray that it does._

 

* * *

 

_Later, alone in his room, he will stare up at the cross on his wall, the pain cutting through his body, as the whip leaves a mark for every place where his lips have touched her skin. He will say to himself that their first kiss was only an accident, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth, his lips responding in turn, as if of their own will. He has a harder time explaining away all the rest._

 

_He will swear to God that it will never happen again. And he will keep punishing himself until he prays that it doesn't._

 


	5. The Things You Can See From a Doorway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris finally sees Justin's tattoo.

As he dressed for the day, he caught a strange image in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. He mentally braced himself for the onslaught of another vision. They were coming more and more frequently now, each one more horrible and disturbing than the next. However, as he turned to fully face the glass, he saw that the image was not that of the figure he had come to know as the Usher or even that of the boy, his enemy, but of his own body now transformed by the massive tree tattoo. Two twin trunks intertwined, battling for dominance across his chest, their branches reaching out in twisted gnarls, like arthritic fingers. He studied his own reflection, lost in following the twisting maze of branches.

 

"Oh, sorry. I thought you were out . . ."

 

Her silence cut through the room, louder than any scream could have.

 

Justin turned his head quickly to see Iris standing in his doorway, staring wide-eyed at the image on his back.

 

He looked back into the mirror, stared deeply into his own eyes, barely recognizing himself. Justin watched in the reflection as Iris slowly walked towards him with the vacant expression of a sleepwalker. He watched as she let the laundry she had been carrying fall forgotten onto the floor beside the bed. He watched her lips as they moved silently, tried to read them, but was truly afraid to know what she was saying. He closed his eyes unable to watch her any longer.

 

He hadn't told her about the tattoo, had avoided letting her see him undressed. As angry as she had been with him lately, that hadn't been hard to do. He'd let her go on believing whatever she wanted about his late night trips to town. Let her imagine scenarios and exchanges with other women. It had been easier to let that come between them than to admit to the terrible transformation he had undergone. Easier to face her locked door than the horror he might have found in her eyes.

 

Without opening his own eyes, he knew she was standing behind him now. He could hear her breath, irregular, loud against the oppressive silence in the room. Knew that she was trying to control it, to steady it, but was losing. Knew from experience that if he turned around and put his palm against her chest, he would feel it shuddering with emotion.

 

Like someone reaching towards a fire, Iris slowly moved her hand towards his back, her fingertips hovering over him, almost touching his skin, yet leaving the barest fraction of space between them.

 

Justin exhaled in relief when Iris finally touched him, when she rested her forehead against the back of his neck and he could feel her breath warm on his skin. One hand fell to his waist, her nails kneading into the inky, tangled roots surrounding him. Her other hand slowly roamed his back, her fingers tracing the trunks and branches cut into his skin. Her fingers cool against his still fevered flesh, Justin swallowed hard as he felt his body begin to respond to Iris's long-familiar hands.

 

"I've missed you."

 

Justin's words hung naked in the air, as he turned around to face his sister.

 

Assaulted now by the new images on his chest, Iris stood silently in front of him. She couldn't or wouldn't look him in the eyes.

 

He bent his face down towards hers, trying to draw her out. "Iris," he pleaded gently. She only shook her head in response. " _Irina_. Please look at me." When she still would not, he took her face in his hand, brushing his thumb over her cheek and snaking his fingers into her hair, to tilt her face until she was forced to meet his eyes. With his other hand on the small of her back, he brought her hips flush against his, making sure she could feel the effect she still had on him.

 

Despite Justin's efforts, Iris kept one hand between them, palm flat against his chest, distancing them and anchoring herself as she felt herself being drawn back into him. More than anything she wanted to just give in. Closing her eyes, she could almost pretend that things were the way they had always been. No fires and no martyrs. No talk of sacrifice and redemption.

 

_How had this happened?_   Iris's mind raced over the last few months. _How could she not have known?_   She looked again at the tattoo. Rubbed her hand roughly against it, trying to erase it. But its indelible mark still lay heavy and dark against her brother's skin.

 

She looked at Justin again and did not recognize him—her own flesh. Until the moment she walked into his room this morning, she had known every inch of his skin as well as she knew her own. Now he stood before her a stranger.

 

"Alexsei, what have you done?"

 

Justin frowned, cut by her voice. She sounded as if her heart were breaking.

 

He grasped her by the shoulders, desperate to make her understand.

 

"I'm finally becoming what I was destined to be."

 

As Iris continued to stare at him in dawning horror, Justin pulled her to him once again. "Oh, Iris," he whispered, his lips against her hair. "If you could only feel what this is like. This . . . this power."

 

Without warning, she twisted violently in his arms, but he regained his grip on her shoulders before she could escape.

 

"Who are you?" she cried. "I don't know you."

 

Justin's hands fell away from her shoulders. Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment, Justin saw himself reflected in Iris's eyes. She turned from him and fled from the room, as he stood stunned, watching her vanish into the hallway. He closed his eyes. He opened them again, black and empty—the monster she had seen.

* * *

 

"Irina!"

 

Iris was nearly at the bottom of the stairs when she felt his rage wash over her, battering her like a breaking wave.

 

"Irina!"

 

As the sound of her name echoed through the house, Iris frantically scanned the living room but there was no one else in the house. Only the two of them.

 

And Norman. Iris's eyes focused on Norman's door.

 

She was reaching towards the doorknob, could almost feel its cool surface turning beneath her palm, when she felt his fingers close around her forearm like a vise.

 

Justin spun her around to face him and with a feral snarl, pushed her back into the wall. Justin's angry face towering above her was suddenly replaced by a bright flash of pain as her head hit with enough force to jar her teeth. Iris felt tears welling up as she blinked against the pain and mounting fear. Justin had never willingly hurt her before. She desperately wanted to believe that he wouldn't hurt her now. But she had seen the haunted, vacant faces of all those girls, seen their broken and scarred bodies. He had made sure she had seen them all.

 

"Let me go, Justin," she warned, her voice taking on a practiced edge. Years of experience had taught her how to use that particular tone to put her little brother back in his place. Iris prayed that it would work now, that she could somehow gain the upper hand.

 

Justin stared intently down into his sister's face, narrowing his eyes in contemplation. He released her arm, left it throbbing. Iris unconsciously rubbed at it with her other hand, as the blood rushed through it once again. She meet Justin's gaze defiantly, refusing to let him see her fear. His expression had gone cold and unreadable.

 

And then he laughed. " _That_ , my  _dear_  sister, doesn't work on me anymore."

 

Iris's lower lip shook with barely contained anger. How dare he mock her? She couldn't stand to look at him, so she looked past him, over his shoulder, towards the window. The diffused morning sunlight played out through the oblivious, swaying leaves of the tree, casting dancing, changing shapes across the floor. It reminded her of a broken mirror, how the faint lamp light had reflected and shone in each hateful shard as she spread it across the floor, how the reflections grew brighter as she crawled through it towards her makeshift altar, how strange it was that the bloodied pieces could still shimmer even while she pried them from of her flesh. Her face burned as she remembered her desperate prayer. Tears started to flow freely down her cheeks before she could stop them. Her penance.

 

She had to get away from him, didn't want him to somehow read her act of supplication—her penance was hers alone. She wanted to be outside in the light, to feel the breeze cool across her skin. She tried to shove past him, to go to the porch, but he blocked her efforts, moving his body closer to hers, caging her against the wall with his arms.

 

The tattoo burned on his chest in front of her, filling her line of vision. She put her hands flat against his chest, spread her fingers out against his skin, until they seemed like mere extensions of the inky branches. Her fingers gradually bore down into his chest, the nails digging into his skin, leaving crescents of blood in their wake.

 

"Iris."

 

She began to shake violently.

 

He grasped her wrists, easily encircling both of them with his hand, wrenching them above her head, pinning them to the wall.

 

"Be still."

 

He breathed out the words, barely above a whisper. Beneath his fingers he felt her muscles relax, the knots of tension unknitting, leaving her body liquid against his.

 

Justin smoothed his free hand lovingly down her face.

 

"That's better, now isn't it?" he said, pressing his mouth to hers in a chaste kiss even as he trailed his finger down her throat to toy with the top button on her dress. He laid his face beside hers, his lips almost touching her ear.

 

"Why must you constantly fight me for control?" he asked. "Oh, Iris. It doesn't have to be like this."

 

He kissed her neck just below her earlobe, let his lips linger on her pulse. He waited for the shiver that had followed that touch a thousand times before. But she remained still and hollow. He released her wrists, letting her arms fall down to her sides. Studying her face for any reaction, he ran his hands up her arms, letting his fingers creep beneath her sleeves, to caress her forearms.

 

He kissed her forehead, kissed her cheek, moved his hands to her throat and slid them down.

 

"I don't want to have to punish you—to hurt you," his voice trailed off as he began to unfasten the buttons that ran down the front of her dress, one after another. A casualty to his growing haste, one tiny black button unthreaded and fell to the floor, forgotten. "But you are so willful."

 

His hand slid inside her dress, teasing across her breast, through the thin material of her slip.

 

"So very willful."

 

He grabbed handfuls of her dress and pulled it up over the tops of her stockings. Justin leaned forward against her, pressing his hips to hers, crushing his painful arousal between them.

 

Grasping at her thigh, he pulled her leg up around him, pulling her closer to grind himself against her through their clothes. Justin let his hand roam beneath her dress, relishing the feel of her silky stocking and her even silkier thigh beneath his hand.  _He could almost feel her stocking clad legs wrapped around his waist, tightening—as she tightened around him, crying out._  

 

When his hand grazed around her knee, he felt something unfamiliar, rough. He released her leg, lowered it to the floor and looked at her in growing concern. He dropped to his knees before her. He slowly pulled her stocking down to reveal a network of cuts, raised like pulsating veins across her knee.

 

He had a sudden revelation of her kneeling, praying. Shining bits of mirror, reflecting her pain, biting through her skin. Her penance. Her knees weeping blood. He had done this to her just as surely as if he had laid the trail of broken glass himself and dragged her across it.

 

Justin ran his fingers lightly over the cuts, some of them still puckered and raw—bent his head and nipped at the bit of unbroken skin beside her knee, darted his tongue at an unmarred freckle— _Iris's freckles. They were inexplicable. No one else in their family had them. At least, he couldn't remember it if they did. She, in a rare vein of vanity, hated them. But he had always loved them. They accentuated her body—scattered across her shoulders and outlined her collarbone, spread across her thighs like constellations. But the dusting of freckles across her knees had always been his favorite. He had tried to count them one night, kissing each one in turn. He started at her toes and managed to reach her left knee before she couldn't stand it anymore and drew him up into her waiting arms._

 

He closed his eyes in shame and revulsion. His hand reverently caressed the back of her knee, as he moved his lips against her sacrificed skin, silently mouthing two words into her—"Forgive me".

 

" _Alexsei_."

 

He looked up at her, surprised to find her blue eyes watching him, her fists clutching handfuls of her dress until her knuckles turned white—surprised that she had somehow regained her will.

 

"That doesn't work on me," she whispered hoarsely, echoing his own words in answer to his unspoken question.

 

Justin fell back away from her, watching her as if she were one of his visions.

 

Iris's hands let the crumpled material from her dress fall; only to disappear beneath it, then reappear sliding her underwear down her legs. When she tried to step out of them and her shoes at the same time, she stumbled and bumped ungracefully against the wall.

 

That simple awkward movement. It took all of Justin's practiced self-control not to touch himself, to bring himself to some sort of release, as he watched her. At that moment she reminded him so much of the skinny little girl who had once been his whole world. A wave of possessiveness washed over him. She was his and his alone—his own flesh and blood, his lover. He was the only one who had ever really touched her, who had seen her like this—the only one who had ever been inside her, body and soul.

 

Iris held her hand out to her brother in unmistakable invitation. A pained expression shadowed her face when he did not take her hand.

 

Still kneeling before her, he pushed his hands back up her legs, spreading them as he went.

 

His sister's legs had almost been his undoing that night he first went to Chinatown to begin the painful process of his transformation. The site of her legs stretched out on the couch, bare feet, smooth calves, and what he knew lay hidden beneath the bottom of her slip. Princes and prophets alike threatened to be forgotten when she stirred and he watched the play of muscle in her inner thigh. She was his one weakness. Eve offering the apple. The one thing that could tempt him to forget.

 

He teased the skin at the juncture of her thighs with his mouth. She sighed and opened her arms towards him, once more trying to draw him up to her, but he made no move to join her. Instead he dipped his head and buried his face between her legs.

 

Mortified, Iris tried to get away from him once again, but she was caught between his seeking mouth and the unbending wall.

 

"Alexsei, what. . ." she gasped.

 

She grasped down at his face and shoulders trying to pull him away, but he would not relent. He only pressed his mouth harder into her.

 

"Don't. What are you do--" her words were cut off by a sharp intake of breath as his tongue found her center. His hands grasped her more firmly as she protested, his thumbs pressing into the dips above her hipbones.

 

Once again she fought. Fought against him, his mouth, and the wonderful, terrible things he was doing to her body. Fought against herself and the way her body was responding. Fought just to pull the air in and out of her lungs.

 

As his mouth continued its assault, her hips unconsciously thrust forward. Her hand clutched at his hair, holding him closer to her, as the other grasped for support against the wall, her nails digging thin grooves into it. She finally relinquished her grip on herself. Iris quit thinking, let her body take over, let the lower angels rule. A chorus of moans and gasps, each one more uncontrolled than the next broke from her lips.

 

Iris covered her mouth with her palm, frightened by the sounds she was making. She felt the knot of exquisite tension start to build in the balls of her feet, up to her calves, tightening her thighs, up into her stomach and spreading through her chest. When he grazed his teeth across her, Iris's whole body exploded. All her control, her sense of cohesion, shattered like the mirror.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, Iris opened her eyes, trying to put together cohesive thoughts and marveling that she was still standing.

 

Justin was standing in front of her, soothing his hands down her cheeks. Taking her face in his hands. Kissing her.

 

_His mouth_.

 

Iris realized with a blush that she could taste what must have been herself on his lips. Oh god, what his mouth had just done—where it had been. Iris rubbed her forehead with her hand, covering her face in the process and hoping to hide her burning cheeks.

 

He smiled down at her as if he were reading her mind once again. He moved her hand away from her face and kissed her slowly, pulled her lower lip between his teeth and sucked it into his mouth, savoring it. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the emotion that flooded her chest.

 

She trailed her fingers down his chest, along the tree's dark trunk to rest on the band of his pants, before undoing the first button, then pausing.

 

He had been watching her hands, his breathing becoming more labored. He throbbed at how near she was. How close her hands were to him. He hadn't felt her hands on him in months. What he wanted was so near now. When she stopped, he looked up to meet her eyes, his own hands taking over her task only to have them covered with her own, stopping him.

 

"No more secrets, Alexsei."

 

At that moment if she had asked him to cut his heart out and feed it to her, still beating, he would have. Justin leaned his head close to hers and whispered in her ear, so quiet she wasn't sure he had spoken at all, but that one word echoed in her mind.

 

She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him fiercely, helping to pull herself up even as he lifted her higher onto the wall, pressing his hips into hers to keep her from falling. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he guided himself inside her.

 

Neither of them moved, overwhelmed by the sensation of being together again, put back together again to a whole. Iris looked down between their joined bodies. She found it hard to tell where his skin ended and hers began, as if the ink were creeping in tendrils beneath her skin too.

 

She bit her lip to keep from crying out as he began to move inside her . . . when they moved together again, it was with the practiced movements, perfected over years, of old lovers. Knowing where to touch each other—his mouth unrelenting at the hollow of her throat—what to whisper at the right moment—his name on her lips repeated like a prayer.

 

He felt her legs tightening around his waist-as she tightened around him—crying out, and the sound of her name once more filled the house, as he came inside her.

 

* * *

 

 

Her fingers lazily traced patterns across his neck as their breathing returned to something resembling normal.  He still leaned against her, but her gaze fell across the room to the screen door.

 

A dark figure stood out in stark contrast against the white porch and the blue sky surrounding it. Startled, Iris started to push herself away from Justin.

 

"Someone's outside."

 

He turned his head, following her gaze. Someone was sitting on the front steps. He looked back to Iris to see her hastily buttoning her blouse. Justin sighed in annoyance.

 

"Get rid of whoever it is," he said, dropping a quick kiss on Iris's cheek.

 

Iris didn't answer, but walked unsteadily across the room, straightening her dress, trying to smooth out the telltale wrinkles. Reaching the door she paused and looked over her shoulder—Justin had disappeared upstairs. She ran her hands over her hair, tucking an errant bit behind her ear, before opening the screen door.

 

The door creaked as she pushed it open but the person on the steps did not look in her direction or show any other signs of awareness for that matter.

 

Iris could tell now that it was a woman—a young woman. Her dress, really no more than a tattered shift, may have once been white but now it was dingy and stained from the dust. Iris had no doubt that this person had wondered up from the migrant camp, probably fresh from weeks or even months on the road.

 

Iris lay her hand on the girl's shoulder.

 

"Can I help you with something, dear?"

 

She secretly breathed a sigh of relief as her voice came out much steadily than it felt. _God, what had this girl seen through the door?_

 

The girl finally turned her head to face Iris. She was taken aback at how haunted the girl's dark eyes were. "Is there something I can do for you?" she asked again, recovering herself.

 

The girl didn't answer at first, seemed to be debating something within herself. Finally she replied, "I need a job and people down in the camps said that you all were looking for a new maid."

 

If she had been sure the girl hadn't seen them, Iris would have sent her packing. But what if she had seen? What would she tell the rest of their followers?

 

"We were—I guess we still are, actually," Iris forced herself to smile sweetly down at the girl. "How long have you been waiting out here?"

 

The girl hesitated. "Just a little while, I guess."

 

_She knew._  Iris tried to remain calm, to keep her face neutral. They would have to deal with this problem quickly.

 

"How rude of me." Iris offered her hand to the girl. "I'm Iris Crowe. Brother Justin's sister."

 

The girl looked visibly relieved to hear that and taking Iris's hand, she stood up and smiled awkwardly at her.

 

Iris almost laughed. The idea that she had just seen the two of them, the famous minister and his sister, together, was so abhorrent to the girl that she could easily convince herself that what she had seen had been a hallucination, that she had been mistaken.

 

"You must be parched. Come inside and I'll get us some nice lemonade while we talk about the position."

 

"Thanks."

 

Iris held the screen door open for the girl, letting her pass in front of her. "What's your name, dear?"

 

"Sofie."

 

* * *

 

_They clung to him that night beside the river,_   _the boy and his sister, terrified and shivering, until he promised they could come home with him._

 

_Norman finally settled them into the back of the carriage, wrapping them in a blanket against the cold night air. Minutes later, he glanced over his shoulder to see them curled together, asleep, her thin arm thrown protectively around her brother, his head tucked into her shoulder._

 

_Norman smiled to himself at the strange and marvelous ways of God. It had been almost a year since they had lost their own child, a daughter, stillborn and too early. Rose knew that she would never have another child and the doctors agreed. Norman watched his wife everyday as she struggled with the loss of what she had looked so forward too. Now perhaps, he dared to hope, these children would fill some of that void._

 

_Well into the night, Norman finally found himself pulling the carriage to a halt in front of his home. He stepped down and walked around to the edge of the carriage. The children were still sound asleep, their faces hidden now, beneath the blanket. "_

 

_We're home now children," he called, smiling at his own words, but they still did not stir. He reached in and gently pulled the blanket away from their sleeping forms. T_

 

_he blanket slipped from his hand as he stumbled back away from the carriage, doubling over to be sick—the children, the boy and his sister, their small bodies, pale and bloated, the skin around their eyes and lips blue, wet hair matted against their faces, still clinging to one another . . ._

 

Norman Balthus blinked his eyes against the morning sun, praising God that it had just been a nightmare. He tried to rub his hand across his face to smooth away the traces of the dream but to his dismay he found he could not lift his arm. It was frozen next to him atop the sheets. As he slowly took in the room around him, Norman remembered the events of the last year—his stroke, the fire, Justin's perversions and blasphemy.

 

" _Irina!"_

 

Norman's hand curled instinctively into a gnarled fist as Justin's angry voice broke through the silence of the early morning and interrupted his thoughts.

 

He heard Iris's hurried footsteps in the living room and shivered nervously as he realized she was heading towards his door.

 

Norman knew that Iris had fallen under Justin's evil influence, had committed unthinkable murders while under his sway. She had been corrupted by the demon in Justin, by the evil that was his adopted son. Norman was beginning to realize just how dangerous Iris herself was. Each morning he watched in growing fear as piece by piece her humanity seemed to be slipping away. But try as he might to the contrary, he still thought of Iris as his daughter, hoped that one day she might be saved.

 

He heard Justin's footsteps thundering across the room, a startled gasp from Iris drowned out by a roar, then a sickening thud, as if a body had hit the wall. Frustration overwhelmed Norman as lay paralyzed. The tension between the two of them had been almost unbearable since their move to the new house. Norman had witnessed their arguments, seen Iris desperately trying to protect her place at her brother's side, watched as Justin punished her and plotted with others. He listened as they continued to argue until Justin's chilling laughter rang out. Then silence dropped over the house. Norman strained to hear what was happening on the other side of the door.

 

_"I don't want to have to punish you—to hurt you . . . but you are so willful."_

 

Norman struggled to turn his head towards the door, alarm etched across his face. He caught something sickeningly familiar in Justin's voice—" _You're mother taught you how to pray, didn't she?"_

 

No, not this.

 

_". . . so very willful."_

 

Norman closed his eyes. Please God, no. Not his own sister.

 

The maids, one after another, had been appalling enough, but how could Justin do this to his own sister? Norman knew now that the Justin he had known was lost forever. The old Justin had loved his sister, had been devoted to her.

 

Trapped inside his own body, powerless to stop what was about to happen, Norman silently called out to God. He prayed for his children's souls and for his own strength.

 

He prayed that it would at least be quick.

 

He lay, waiting for the horrible noises to begin—the demonic wails, the feral howls. He waited for her anguished screams and pleas for help. But they did not come.

 

He could hear only broken snatches of breathing, followed by periods of terrifying silence. Then Iris's pleading voice,  _"Alexsei, what--Don't. What are you do--"_

 

Is this my punishment, my punishment for saving the children, those innocent children all those years ago by the river? Norman thought. To be frozen, forced to listen as his son defiled—raped—his own sister.

 

He cringed as she moaned, continued to pray as her broken gasps and sighs grew louder.

 

Sounds of pleasure. Norman narrowed his eyes. My God, she was enjoying it. "No." Norman forced the single word out with all his strength but it came out as little more than a hoarse whisper. His body shook in anger and revulsion.

 

How long had this been going on—months, years? Norman felt bile rising up into his throat at the thought that it had probably begun under his own roof, in the house where he and Rose had raised them and loved them just like their own.

 

The pieces slid into place with startling clarity. All the touches that lingered just a little longer than necessary, the adoring looks, the unsettling kisses goodbye . . .

 

Iris's cry pierced the room. Norman's experience was limited to just one woman, but some sounds were unmistakable.

 

Thank god Rose would never have to know about this. Norman prayed that the Lord would be merciful to him as well and let him die before he had to look into either of their faces again.

 

_"No more secrets . . ."_

 

Trapped, Norman listened as Justin's groans joined his sisters, listened to the muffled sound of a body bumping in frenzied rhythm against the wall.

 

Please, God. At least let it be quick.

 


End file.
